The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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Unnumbered Tears - Part 3

The battle reaches its horrific conclusion as the riders struggle merely to survive.  

37)  Unnumbered Tears Part 3 - Year of the Sun 472 Lairë (Summer)

 

Morelen

 

Everything seemed to move in slow motion.  Orcs and trolls washed over the Eastern Army from the front, while the Easterlings assailed them from the rear.  Cries of treachery rose from the Maedhros’ forces as the sons of Ulfang stabbed elves in the back.  Uldor, Ulfast and Ulwarth took swords and daggers to the throats of their former allies in a wave of murder.  Confusion reigned as a second force of Easterlings held ground and then attacked their kin, remaining faithful to the Noldor.  Their leader, Bór, and his sons, Borlad, Borlach and Borthand, charged into the flank of Ulfang’s army, savage and feral, enraged at the betrayal.  Their red clothes and armor embodied their bloodlust against the traitors.

Horror filled the riders of Fingon as Maedhros’ army broke, many fleeing in all directions.  Morelen could see her entire future slipping away…the life of peace, a family, a beautiful civilization under the Noldor.  It was all crumbling.  The Telepta Company quailed for a moment until Notaldo shouted over the din, “This is not over.  Telepta!  This is not over!  Keep fighting!”  He fired an arrow into the neck of a troll, and it toppled over on some orcs, crushing them.  Morelen’s gut churned, and she gripped Luinë so hard her knuckles were white.  That cold pain in her stomach turned into hot rage and she drew her bowstring back to her ear and let fly.  The arrow shot like a lightning bolt into a werewolf’s skull, piercing from face, out the back of its head.

In the middle of the rout, the faithful Bór speared Ulfang in the gut and lifted his weapon, ripping the traitor from stomach to throat, hoisting Ulfang into the air.  As his spear became lodged in bone, Uldor cut him across the throat with his sword in a spray of blood.  Bór fell backwards, gripping his neck as his sons cried out in anguish.  Uldor turned, triumphant in vengeance for his father, but then saw a new threat. Maglor, the son of Fëanor, cut his way through the Easterlings to the leaders of the traitors, the white plates of his armor almost glowing.  Uldor attacked and they traded blows, sword upon shield until Maglor, a renown bard of the Quendi, shouted a word of power and Uldor and his brothers were blown back onto the ground.  The elf put his knee on the back of Uldor’s neck, pulled his head back and sank his dagger into his skull as the sons of Bór ripped the sons of Ulfang apart.

Borlad, gripped Maglor by the arm.  “My lord! Fall back and save yourself.  We will cover your retreat!  The traitors will pay with their lives, this I swear!” His long, black hair was wrapped in a red cloth beneath his pointed helm and blood ran down the brown skin of his face.

Maglor nodded, his gray eyes full of fury.  “Borlad, you and your family will always be remembered as faithful.  I will signal you and then get yourselves to safety.”

Morelen watched in horror as the Sons of Fëanor fell back with as many men as they could muster.  The Eastern Army was no more.  Notaldo shouted, getting her mind back in the action. “Stay together, Telepta!  We still have a battle to fight!”  The elite riders let out a war cry as Notaldo wheeled the company about.  “We must protect the king!  Ride back to Fingon!”

In the distance, the Dwarves of Belegost under their king, Azaghȃl, drove into the enemy, their glittering armor and spears driving orcs before them, singing as they struck.  The great dragon, Glaurung, leapt upon them, crushing and scattering many dwarves.  Dwarven axes rained down upon the dragon’s scales and the sharp, enchanted blades bit into the beast’s skin and Glaurung howled in pain.  With rage in his eyes, he clawed at Azaghȃl, but the dwarf’s mithril armor deflected every blow.  Azaghȃl speared the dragon in the neck, and it shook in pain, wrenching the weapon from the dwarf’s grasp.  Glaurung leapt upon the dwarven king, knocking him down and then crushed him with his massive weight, but Azaghȃl drove his thick dagger into the belly of the beast, ripping, tearing and cutting, the dragon’s blood pouring out upon the Anfauglith.  Glaurung bellowed as the Dwarven King died, a sound that cut the air like a knife, his cry freezing the hearts of his orcs.  With a fearful shriek, the dragon bolted back to Angband, limping and howling, his army fleeing along with him.  Morelen snarled in approval, hoping that the beast would die in agony.  The Sons of Fëanor were granted their escape.

The riders tore back to the west on tired mounts, but they could not let up now.  The situation with the Western Army was little better.  The Valaraukar or balrogs had driven a wedge between the armies of Fingon and Turgon and were prying it wide open.  Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, was sweeping his flaming sword, Bragolamarth, the Sudden Doom, back and forth like a scythe, driving the men and elves before him.  He stood more than three times the height of an elf.  The white balrog, Lungorthin, spat acid onto his enemies, watching them dissolve before him amid horrific screams.  He then roared, brandishing his massive white sword, Nimrist, the White Cleaver, and his whip, Lugnor, the Fire Loop.  Another balrog, known as Múar or Úruvaiwa to the elves, wielded a two thronged whip, Adugoroth, and a black hammer, Gordring, tearing through the Noldor to get at the High King.

Tintallo slowed just enough to shout orders to the riders, “Drive straight for the King!  Telepta, clear a path!”  Notaldo raised his bow, and the company drew as one.  As he released, hundreds of arrows flew into the enemy, catching them by surprise.  Orcs shrieked, grasping at shafts that protruded from necks and faces. Then, the Misë and Morna Companies drove into them, lances lowered for deadly effect.  Lance tips skewered orc, troll and wolf, some lances shattering into splinters.  Some riders were brought down by bow or spear, horses rearing and falling.  Another volley of arrows tore into the orcs, and a gap was opening.  Morelen reached down to her quivers to find only three arrows remaining.  Arrows or no arrows, they were going to save the High King.  “I know you’re tired, Lindarion,” she said into her horse’s ear.  “We can’t stop to rest just yet.”  Lindarion whinnied in approval.

Gothmog turned his attention on Fingon and his bodyguard, roaring flame from his mouth and nostrils. Most of the Noldor had been unhorsed and fought on foot, dead steeds lying in piles around them.  Lungorthin and other balrogs moved to surround them, flaming whips and swords slashing and cutting.  Another volley of arrows flew, orcs, wolves, trolls and a balrog falling under the assault of gull-feathered shafts.  Morelen fired again into Lungothin’s neck, Luinë’s bowstring singing. The slime-covered balrog staggered and fell to one knee but pulled the arrow out and cast it aside.  One arrow left.

Fingon and his bodyguard were now entirely surrounded.  Nandamo and other guards swarmed one of the balrogs and hacked at it with their blades. Flames engulfed them, but they were heedless in their fury and the balrog crashed down upon the barren ground of the Anfauglith.  Lungorthin belched forth a stream of acid that engulfed some of the guards and they melted, screaming and dissolving into puddles of smoking goo.  Nandamo leapt at the balrog and sliced him across the chest, sickly green blood pouring out.  He dodged a blow from the massive sword and cut the balrog’s thigh.  With a howl, Lungorthin fell back and swung his whip out, snapping its tip onto Nandamo’s chest.  Smoldering slime splattered onto his armor and sizzled.  The elf screamed but leapt onto the balrog’s chest. He hewed it down its shoulder, cutting deep but was knocked aside onto the ground.  Lungorthin spat acid but Nandamo dodged aside.  The wings on his helm were broken and his silver and blue surcoat had melted onto his silver armor.

The Morna Company drove forward to get to the High King, but the fighting was intense.  Orcs and werewolves swarmed up onto the riders, casting them from their saddles.  Captain Lutano was hard pressed, cutting left and right.  He was a stone’s throw from reaching Fingon’s bodyguard when a werewolf slammed into him, tossing him from his horse.  He drove his curved sword up through the wolf’s chin and out the back of its head.  As he stood to rise, a troll brought its spiked mace down upon his helm and blood spattered out through the visor.

High King Fingon drove his sword into the throat of a troll and then darted away, slashing a balrog down its face.  Fingon was on the next troll before the two beasts hit the ground.  He was a blur of blue and silver, dashing away before any blow could land on him.  He pulled Nandamo to his feet though the herald was grievously wounded, acid burns upon his body.  He set the herald down and then clove a troll from groin to throat, leaping off of its face as it crashed backwards.  He darted aside as a balrog smashed the ground with its sword and then drove back, plunging his sword into its neck.  He then looked about to see that only Nandamo and two guards remained.

Morelen nocked her last arrow, unsure of what target might do the most damage to the enemy.  She looked at Gothmog, then the wounded Lungorthin, then Múar.  The Lord of the Balrogs was closing in on the High King.  She knew that he arrow wouldn’t kill the beast, but maybe it would slow him down.  She loosened her thumb and the shaft flew true, sinking deep into Gothmog’s neck. He roared, spitting fire and smoking blood and his hand came up to the wound and ripped the arrow out, casting it aside.  They had no choice but to draw swords now.

Misë Company charged into the enemy, heedless of their own safety to save the king.  Tintallo, sword in hand, cut down a rank of orcs, almost single handedly as he led his men forward.  Resistance was fierce, the sheer force of Gothmog’s will keeping his army in a fury.  Telepta charged in next, swords drawn, horses crashing into the orcs.  They were so near to Gothmog’s flames that they could feel the heat.  The balrog turned and flung his whip, slicing Tintallo’s horse’s head clean off.  The captain leapt to the ground deftly and sliced through another wave of orcs.  Notaldo threw his dagger into the eye of a troll and then rode by, slashing it across the belly.  Still, the ring around Fingon would not break.

Tintallo was savage now, hewing and cutting, heedless of his own safety.  Losing the High King would be like losing his own soul.  Notaldo and Líreno were more methodical, darting and dashing on horseback, attacking at key points.  Morelen cut with Melima as she rode by and an orc’s head slid off of its shoulders.  Notaldo pointed at Gothmog.  “We need to bring him down!  We take him out, the way is open!”  Morelen gulped hard for a moment before tightening her stomach.  She raised Melima and snarled like a wolf.  

The balrog saw them coming and turned to face them.  He laughed, a guttural, grating sound and a wall of fire erupted from the earth and their horses reared, whinnying in panic.  The heat from the wall of flame was like a furnace.  Morelen kicked Lindarion’s flanks.  “Go girl!  Go!” but the horse would not move.  She leapt from the saddle and rushed forward, shielding her face with her arms.  Every cell in her body was in terror, but nothing would stop her from saving her king.  She crashed through the burning wall and screamed in pain, but her enchanted armor kept her from burning.  She staggered to one knee, batting at her smoldering surcoat, the silver and blue fabric sizzling and smoking.  Notaldo and Líreno were riding around the wall, smashing through the enemy.

Morelen looked up to see a troll bearing down on her.  As it raised a spiked mace, she drew upon her power and her form shimmered.  The troll struck empty space, smashing the dried lava of the plains.  She leapt up and drove her sword into its belly and then ripped her sword out sideways. Black blood and guts spilled out in a foul stench as she moved onto the next target.

The balrog, Úruvaiwa, the Fiery Wind, moved to cut her off as she rushed to Fingon.  He was smaller than the others, only twice the height of an elf and burned with a bluish flame that sounded like the winds of a tornado.  But he was fast, just as fast as Morelen.  They charged at each other, Úruvaiwa hurling his twin-thonged whip, Adugoroth, the Double Horror, at her.  Blue flame shot at her face from the tips, but she rolled under it.  He swung his black spiked weapon, the Dread Hammer, down and she dodged away again, raising her hand that shot out a beam of light.  The balrog winced and she cut aggressively with Melima at his neck, but he stepped back with such speed that she lost her balance and nearly fell.  Her mouth fell open at how fast he was.  His whip wrapped around her ankles and pulled, knocking her down into the dried lava. Her helm hit the ground and her head was ringing.  She saw the hammer coming down and rolled away as it hit, shattering the ground, throwing up bits of volcanic rock.  Still on her back, she sliced through the balrog’s leg, and he staggered back.  She cut through the thongs and then bolted back up and gashed him across the nose, then leaping away towards Fingon.  Úruvaiwa shrieked in pain, the sound of it like the winds of a hurricane.  He snapped what was left of his whip at her, but she was already gone.  “I will find you, she elf!  I know your scent!  I will find you!” he bellowed.  Pressing on, she sliced through an orc and then scanned the area and learned that all hope was lost.

Wounded and bleeding, the balrog Lungorthin flung Lugnor out, wrapping it around Fingon’s body. The High King cried out in pain, but hacked at the whip with his sword.  Then, shadow and flame stood before him.  Gothmog stepped forward, his full form encased in fire.  He raised his black battle axe, Fëagon, the Commander of Spirits and clove the High King’s head in two.  The Lord of the Balrogs and Lungorthin then beat upon his corpse with swords and axes until nothing could be recognized, the banner of Fingon, crushed in the blood of the king.

Watching in slow motion horror, a million things shot through Morelen’s brain.  What would become of them?  Who would lead them?  This couldn’t be real.  How would they tell his son, Gil-Galad?  How could she have failed another so dear to her?  Fingon had been like a second father to her for centuries.  She shrieked in despair and fury, tears running down her face through the soot and sweat of fire and battle.  She raised her visor and ran at Gothmog.  He would pay.  He would pay for destroying the hope of the Free Peoples.  Just as she dug her feet into the ground, Nandamo caught her.  His face was twisted in emotional agony over the death of the king.  “No!  No! It’s over!  You’ll die for nothing!”  The last two guards helped him drag her back just as Notaldo and Líreno rode by with more horses.  She fought their grip but she was already so exhausted.

Morelen leapt up into the saddle and they fled for all they were worth.  She pounded on the pommel of her saddle with her fist, smashing it down with the strength of her madness.  For a moment, she thought to abandon her friends and to turn and attack Gothmog once more, but Notaldo saw her and knew what she was thinking.  He shook his head sharply.  “No.  We need you. I need you.  We will live to fight again.”  As they rode across the ruined plains over bodies, crushed, cut, burned and torn, they saw Turgon’s Army, retreating methodically, shielded by the men of Dor-Lómin.

With her unnatural vision she saw the House of Hador standing before the onslaught of Morgoth’s armies, shielding the retreat of Turgon.  The elves of Gondolin marched backwards, spears still bristling.  There would still be hope in the power of the Noldor. Huor waved to Turgon through the battle. “A new star shall arise, King Turgon! A new star shall arise!”  Slowly, Turgon’s forces withdrew down the Sirion to safety.  The men of Dor-Lómin then set their last stand at the marshland called the Fen of Serech as orcs and trolls assailed them from all sides.  Just as the riders passed from any view of the battlefield, she saw an orc arrow pierce Huor through the eye and he fell back, swarmed by orcs.  The rout was nearly complete.  Their defeat total.

By the time she had come to her senses they had covered miles of ground.  She raised her visor and wiped the snot and tears from her face. She wanted to scream, to wail, but nothing would come out, only a hoarse, raspy whisper.  How would they endure?  What would become of them.  She silently cursed the Valar for allowing this horror to happen.  Why did Manwë release Morgoth?  The world would be better off without the dark lord and his evil. Is Manwë that gullible…that foolish? She looked over to Líreno, who was lost in his own dark thoughts.  He looked up and made eye contact and it was as if they both understood what the other was thinking.

Now, beyond the immediate reach of Morgoth’s armies, the riders slowed.  Notaldo raised himself up in the saddle and scanned around.  “Telepta!  I need a head count.”  They were still the elite of Fingon’s forces and discipline was the key to their survival. Individual squadrons began to sound off and Líreno and Morelen kept tally.  For the Telepta, it was not nearly as bad as was thought.  Horse archery kept them at a distance from the most savage part of the battle.

“We still have Eighty Percent, fit and ready,” called Líreno.

“We need arrows though,” called Morelen.  “Most have only one or two left.  I’m out.”

Notaldo nodded as Tintallo rode up on a new horse.  He looked beaten and shaken, his helm and armor dented and covered in black blood. He fought like someone possessed, but now the adrenaline had worn off.  Nandamo met them in the middle.  “What’s your company’s status?” Tintallo asked slowly as if in a dream.  His eyes were blank and vacant, a thousand yard stare.

Notaldo took a deep breath. “We lost Twenty Percent, but we’re able to fight.”

Tintallo grunted and then looked away to wipe his eyes.  “Misë…Misë took…Fifty Percent losses.  Morna is…Morna is gone.”

Notaldo’s eyes bulged. “I…I see.  We can screen the retreat.  I see a lot of stragglers coming towards us.  We need to protect them.  Uh, Tintallo, where do we go?  Barad Eithel is gone.”  They all looked to the elf for guidance.

The lead captain blinked. “I…I…,” he began and then started coughing.

Morelen rode up next to him and took him by the shoulders.  “You need rest, Tintallo.  Here, take a drink,” she said and handed him her canteen.  He nodded and drank thirstily.

“Thank you. I’m…I’m…no, it’s…,” he stammered and began to shake.

She embraced him as he broke down, shaking like a leaf.  He had always been the strong, cocky one, but now, he was like a child.  Seeing him like this shook off her own horror.  She needed to be strong for the others now.  They all needed to stick together.  “It’s alright.  It’s alright.  We will survive.  The day shall come again.”  She looked at Notaldo.  “I think you need to take command for now.  I’ll take my squadron back to protect the survivors.  We’ll need everyone that we can.  Líreno, are you with me?”

They both nodded.  Nandamo raised his hand.  “I will come with you,” he said, weak and exhausted, acid burns on parts of his body.  “Don’t turn me away.  I need to do this,” he added through gritted teeth.  Morelen nodded.

Notaldo took her hand. “Stay safe.  I need you.  We will go to Nargothrond and swear to Orodreth.  They will need good warriors.”

“Nargothrond?” she asked. “I worry about their defenses. Wouldn’t the Falas be safer?”

He shook his head. “The Falas are too exposed. Morgoth will go there next.  At Nargothrond, the river Narog is its own defense.  No army can ford the river under fire and no dragon could find purchase on the landing to assault the gates.  And it is hidden from Morgoth.  We will be safe there,” he said with confidence meant to reassure her.

“I…yes, I guess you’re right.  We will meet you there.  We will bring all that we can.”  She hated to leave him.  She wanted nothing more than to be in the caverns with him, pools of cool water under reflected sunlight or magical illumination, ethereal music echoing down the halls that were adorned with such fine artistry and elaborate mosaics.  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, giving him a nod.  She could see that he did not want to part from her either.

Finally turning away, Notaldo rallied the Misë to him and then continued to ride south along the Sirion for Nargothrond as the Telepta turned back north.  They were soon met with another horrid sight.  Streams of refugees and wounded poured from the north in overwhelming numbers.  Elves and Edain mixed together in small groups, all fleeing the onslaught of the enemy. Families, young children, old humans, carts and oxen, all running as fast as they could.  “Keep going south!” Morelen shouted to them.  “The army is reforming to the south!  We will keep you safe!  Keep going!”

Morelen rode past a wagon that had broken a wheel.  An Edain family was desperately trying to fix it.  All that they had was on that cart, including a pregnant woman and several young children.

Men and women put their hands together as she rode up.  “Please! Please help us!” they begged. “Mistress elf, please!”

Her hands shook at the desperation of these people.  Lindarion stopped, sensing her feelings.  She thought for a moment, torn between duty and compassion.  Líreno grasped her arm.  “You can’t save them all.”

She shook off his grip. “But I can save some.”  She dismounted.  “Continue on.  I’ll rejoin you shortly.  I have this.” She walked up to the broken wheel as the people surrounded her.  As a Noldor, she towered over them.  She looked down at one young boy, who hung onto her leg.  She tousled his hair and smiled at him.  “I’ll have you moving again soon.  Don’t you worry, young man.”

Líreno looked back and nodded.  “Do it quickly, Morelen.  We’ll be up ahead, herding survivors south.  I’ll grab some arrows too.”

She knelt down and looked at the wheel, knowing that she had no idea how to fix it physically. But her father, the Guild and The Three taught her many things that were not of the physical world.  “Here, raise the wagon and hold the wheel in place,” she told them, and the men put their backs into it, raising the wagon.  Others held the wheel around the hub and the broken spokes.  She put one spoke in place and focused her mind on it.  She felt her power flowing into the wood and the spoke shimmered.  It was like living wood, growing into place. It held.  “Next one, quickly!”  One by one, she put the spokes back onto the hub, feeling weaker as her power flowed into the wood.  In a minute, the wheel was whole again.  She felt dizzy for a moment as she stood.  The little boy wrapped himself around her leg again and she picked him up in her arms.  “There,” she told him.  “You were very helpful.  You be careful now.  You can continue on.  What’s your name, little man?” she asked, and he threw his arms around her neck and held tight.

One man took her hands, thanking her.  “I am Huron. We are in your debt.  His name is Haldir.  His parents are…gone we fear.  His father fought with Huor and his mother passed a year ago.  There has been no word from his father for days now.”  Tears streamed down Morelen’s face.  So much horror.  So much loss.  She wanted nothing more than to take him with her, but she knew that she couldn’t.

She shook every hand as she held Haldir.  “Please be safe.  Go south to safety.  We will be going to Nargothrond.  Our company is leading stragglers to Orodreth’s kingdom.  Perhaps I will see you there.  I must go now.  My company is protecting survivors.  We will make sure that the orcs cannot follow you.”  She tried to pry Haldir from her neck, but he was not letting go.  Huron peeled his little hands away and took him and the boy started wailing.  It broke her heart and she choked down a hot, wet feeling in her face.  “I’m sorry, Haldir, I’m sorry.  I will find you.  I swear.” She had to look away else she would be unable to do her duty.  Her breathing came in ragged gasps as she climbed back into the saddle.  She chanced one last look back to see Haldir screaming and reaching out to her.  It was something that she would never forget should she live to be Ten Thousand.

As she rode on, she knew how Tintallo felt.  It was as if her guts had been torn out by the claws of a werewolf.  She was raw, hollow, almost dead inside.  She began to alternate between weeping and laughing. The world of the Free Peoples had gone from hope to ruin in one day.  She rode on, numb now as she passed thousands of refugees, streaming along the road south by the Sirion.  She signaled and called out to them to keep moving south.  Hithlum would fall, followed by Dor-Lómin.  They no longer had the power or the numbers to defend them. They were leaderless and adrift. She caught up to Líreno who had called a halt.  The company was now standing behind the last of the refugees who could flee.  The road north was littered with broken wagons, dead horses and people.  It appeared as though the enemy had stopped their pursuit for now.  Their casualties were staggering.  But Morgoth cared not.  They were only insects to him, tools for his narcissism and destructive rage.

Líreno dismounted and knelt down besides the body of a woman.  It was Aistallë, Hurinon’s widow.  She had cut her own throat.  Morelen leapt from the saddle and ran to them.  Líreno’s face was buried into her chest, and he pounded his fist on his own helm. “No!  No!  Not you too! We were supposed to care for you! We promised Hurinon!” he shouted in rage and despair.

Morelen collapsed on top of the dead woman’s body.  Her body had given out.  She saw that Aistallë’s leg was broken, and she could go no further.  Aistallë had sat down and ended it before the enemy could take her.  A low, guttural moan formed in Morelen’s throat, and she bit the back of her gloved hand hard.  Then, a cry got her attention.  She looked about frantically.  Something was moving near another corpse.  She ran over.  “It’s Silmani!  Líreno, it’s Silmani!”  It was Hurinon’s daughter.  “She’s alive!”  No older than Haldir, the girl was huddled behind the corpse, terrified with eyes wide. Morelen wrapped her up in her arms. “Come Silmani, we are friends of your parents.  We will keep you safe.”  A tidal wave of relief washed over her as a reserve of energy flowed into her.  Here was one soul that she could save.  She summoned what was left of her power and let it flow into Silmani.

Líreno ran over and fell to his knees.  “Thank you!” he said, looking up.  “Thank you for this one small thing.”

Without another word, Líreno lifted Aistallë onto the back of his saddle and Morelen placed Silmani ahead of her.  The sun was setting on the field of disaster, but one small miracle had taken place.  As they rode south along the great river to Nargothrond, the waters of the Sirion rippled and began to turn into a face. The blueish green face rose out of the river, white hair and a long beard like seaweed, his head covered in a helm like a giant seashell, his armor glistening scales like a fish.  He watched the riders depart with the girl and her dead mother and he lowered his head.  Then, he faded back into the river, vanishing into the fast-flowing water.

Chapter End Notes

Turgon will become High King.  The riders will regroup in Nargothrond and swear to King Orodreth.  There was some discrepancy over the lineage, some saying Orodreth is Finrod's brother and some saying he was Finrod's nephew.  I'm choosing him to be Finrod's brother.  I also choose to have Gil-Galad be Fingon's son.  The character, Serce, is one I created for another story, The Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  She is Irime's daughter, who is mentioned as coming to Middle Earth, but nothing further is said in the canon.  Irime is Fingolfin's sister and will feature in future chapters of the Court.

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